


like real people do

by scarsimp



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Chronic Pain, Flashbacks, Gay Panic, Getting Together, Good for them, Grief/Mourning, I swear, I swear it is way sweeter than it sounds, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scar has a Not Great Time for a few paragraphs basically, also on Scar's side, but that's valid considering what he's dealt with, good for them!, on Scar's side because, these bitches gay, this is cute mainly, yes this also hints at trans Miles, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26298919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarsimp/pseuds/scarsimp
Summary: “Can I kiss you?” Miles’ voice was hesitant, a whisper in the quiet suffocation of the night, the rain, the moment. He blinked, eyes widening, before he realized the man was staring at his lips. Something bird-like fluttered to life in his chest and he nodded slowly.
Relationships: Miles/Scar (Fullmetal Alchemist)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	like real people do

**Author's Note:**

> i'm Gay and making you all suffer with me. this is weird and pining and mildly disassociative but what Scar centric fic isn't, honestly.

Miles never asked for his name.

The knowledge was one that lingered in the edges of his mind, away from the fractured glass within himself or the looming sense of paranoia in everything he had come to do or know. It was a safe thing to know, something clean. He could wash his hands in it every night and wake up knowing it would never change, white marble against the blood splattered sand.

He could wake up holy again. Without the salt sweat of tears in his mouth or the phantom pain of blood and broken skin against his face, forgetting the echo of pain that would travel up and down his arm- a mimicry of loss he would never get used to. His brother’s nails were shaped different from his own. Loss was a taste on his tongue that he was overly familiar with. It burnt like coal and never changed. 

That was something he had learned quickly, too fast to be comfortable and overgrown like weeds in a long abandoned garden. Grief was a glutton. It ate and ate away at every part of him, taking more than he could bear to give. His mother, father, brother, name. It grabbed with sticky fingers and then came back for seconds. He was starving with it, a hollowness in his bones that made him feel like the wind would take him away. 

Something about Miles, whether it be the way he smiled at him, or the way his hands and face were rough from snowlight and a cold sun;  _ something _ about Miles kept him- he didn’t quite know. Fed, almost. Nourished. Alive in a way he hadn’t felt in years, months, days. 

He understood, in a way most didn’t. Not quite the same, but not dissimilar, either. Miles had chosen a new name, replaced and buried the old one, and he had done something… near. His name died with his mother and father and he would never take another. He was a dead man walking but instead of a corpse, when Miles looked at him he somehow saw someone to call “habibi.”

It was more than he deserved. 

It had started the first time he tried to trim his hair since the end of the war. The  _ true _ end, with Bradley banished to Hell and his people finally going home. It had been okay- it was supposed to be okay, but instead as he raised the scissors to the thick curls above his brow they  _ glinted _ . 

The world around him took a breath and he froze; all he could see, hear, taste was thick shrapnel and the heavy metal of blood and salt in his mouth. Someone gasped. The scissors fell out of his hand with a harsh noise and the silent flutter of hair. Someone groaned. He felt his hands cover his mouth and tried not to gag on a pain long dead. 

The white walls of their bathroom were suddenly too small, and he stared at nothing as they seemed to shrink around him. The mirror shone mockingly, his reflection something to pity. Deer eyes and pallid skin; he tried to take a breath again and choked on the weight of it. 

Miles almost appeared out of nowhere, a stroke of luck from God. Heavy footsteps echoed on the well-loved wood of the floor, and he was suddenly grateful he had left the door open and unlocked. 

Miles gripped his hands in his own and squeezed them, firm and unafraid. “What’s going on, rafiqi?” His voice was easy and gentle- like soothing a wild animal. The scissors glinted like diamond, mocking in the corner of his eye. His face was crawling, itching like something was underneath the skin. He could swear blisters were forming all over again, just like-    
  
“I’m fine.”

“Don’t.” Miles’ voice was the same tenor, but steady and commanding. “What did you do?”   
  
‘ _ I didn’t do anything _ ’, he wanted to claim, except that was a lie. He couldn’t lie to Miles, the idea of it made something in him curdle. “I didn’t do anything bad,” he managed instead. His heart was fluttering against his chest and he wondered faintly if he was dying again. “I just-”

Miles raised a thin, pale brow; a lazy glance around the room and he saw the tufts of pale white hair. The scissors dropped onto the counter- blades open and gaping like a mouth. Dark red eyes landed back onto his, and the choppy length of his hair must’ve made more sense. Miles’ eyes were darker than his own, more brown than red.    
  
“You just wanted to trim your hair, didn’t you? It  _ is _ getting long.” Miles lifted to brush through the thick waves that were falling in front of his eyes, brushing a strand behind his ear and lingering. “Too close to the scar? I know you don’t like to talk about it- sorry.” He shook his head, shrugged.    
  
“It’s fine.”   


“Stop saying you’re fine when you’re not,” Miles frowned, lines around his mouth deepening. “You don’t have to act strong anymore, not around me.”

A nod and a shaky breath; ice was coursing through his veins and had frozen his tongue. It burned. Miles watched him with a quiet trepidation and it must have been obvious that he was falling apart at the seams, lungs stilted and skin ashen. Warm fingers squeezed his palms again and Miles shook their hands lightly, a small swaying. “You look fine with it long, anyway. Why don’t you save that for later.” 

He let it grow, and grow. 

Marcoh taught him breathing exercises after that. Something about them made his face burn with embarrassment, but he forced it down and suffocated it. By the time a month had passed he could trim the sides down again. He didn’t know when he would be able to cut the rest. 

More days passed, almost like a dream if not for the very real pain of his shoulders and bones. He didn’t know why, but it was something that had stayed with him his entire life. An ache in his ribs, in his marrow; it crawled and gnawed at him in the cold. 

He realized something, one of those days. Miles was a steady presence behind him, and he wondered for a split second when he no longer found the man a threat. The other had insisted on braiding his hair, something he would never admit would be preferable to brushing it at the moment. His arm was a buzz of trickling sensation and nerves. Miles brushed the nape of his neck and he didn’t even shudder. When he could sit still and neat on the ground and just  _ let _ him casually play with his hair. It had grown long, longer than it had ever been. It hung heavy on his shoulders, the sides growing out and tickling his ears in a way he found more amusing than annoying. He found he didn’t quite mind it. Miles liked it.

Sometimes he had to glance in the mirror twice to recognize himself. He liked that too. His hair waved in heavy loops and framed his jaw, hid his forehead. It made him…  _ softer.  _ He thought he liked that most of all. 

Miles sometimes stopped and stared at him, something in his heavy eyes that made his heart and mind race. He couldn’t quite place it, something he had never felt before. He felt known. Something solid, something strong and steady, unflinching under the weight of him. 

Seen. 

It lingered on his skin for hours afterwards, and he wondered if he was falling ill before passing that off as ridiculous. Miles was different, something about it made him want to be seen by the soldier. Made him want to see him in return. He wanted to know his favorite music genre, what Miles’ favorite dessert was, if his mother and grandfather ever taught him traditional recipes or prayers- he was suddenly curious in the strangest ways. 

It distracted him, most of the time. Fading around the edges of their shared home, cooking when he could muster the recipes up from the strange, greyed out corners of his mind. He hated that he forgot things, now. Easy things, simple things; where he had set the cardamom, how long it took to boil the rice. Things he had known for years upon years. It was always worse before it rained.    
  
The humidity would sit heavy and thick in the air and his throat, raising the strands of his hair and latching to his skin like scales. The pressure of it all was almost painful, in a strange way. Forceful against his joints and sinuses and making his eyes water - he couldn’t tell if the tears were instinctive or not, anymore.

And some time before they moved fully out to Ishval, when the humidity was replaced by rain that came down too hard, fogging the thick glass windows, it was almost like it was drenching him as well. The grief flew in like old clouds, stronger than before with the strange absence his anger had left. That wrath had stayed with him for years, a presence near comforting as he suffocated under the Amestris skies and choked down the food. It was almost a friend; a ghost who’s haunting he couldn’t banish. 

It was long buried now, and the Summers in Amestris always brought bad weather. He’d never get used to either. 

Pain took its place like a family member, coming with the rains and staying for days afterwards; filling every part of him with a festering wound that gripped at the burrows of his mind. It drenched him, making it almost impossible to move. All he could do was sleep and lay there, something septic inside him. It hurt.  _ He _ hurt.

Miles seemed to understand, though. He would come and sit besides him, never too close but near enough that his warmth was a comforting presence. He never asked, never prodded for answers he didn’t know how to give. The soldier was silent and still and it was enough. It was enough. 

One day, though, he did get closer. It was pouring, maybe the worst storm he had seen in his short life, and Miles was besides him as always. Quiet, his hair was down from its usual braids and the thick, white curls were pulled into a ponytail. Lightning flickered outside and he watched as it highlighted Miles, a silhouette of something  _ more _ . The breath caught in his lungs.    
  
Miles seemed to hear it, and as he shifted the moment shattered, and something softened the harsh edges of his lips and brow. The man smiled faintly down at him, before seeming to resolve himself and shifting. He could feel himself frown for a moment,  _ a quick had he done something? _ before Miles lowered himself to lay on his side. They were face to face, the only thing separating them was the thin sheets and quilt Miles had brought from his barrack. 

They normally shared a bed, but something this time was different. Something had changed, charged like the electricity in the air. Miles had a scar across his right brow, a faint thing, old, but pink against the brown of his skin. His hair was thicker, drifting lightly to land across his forehead. It was darker than his own, more grey than white.

“Hey,” Miles' voice was low, a rasp. It tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Are your joints bothering you?”

He felt himself pause and blink. “How did you know?” He finally asked, too curious for his own good.    
  
Miles shrugged, smiling faintly. “Rain makes joints hurt, and you never wanna leave the room when it storms too bad. Plus,” he moved to trace a finger over the roping scar across his left collarbone- a gift from Bradley. “You always favor your left arm.”

“Oh,”  _ oh. _ Something about the quiet confession of it, a secret something Miles had saved close to his chest and never thought to mention; it ached in a way unfamiliar and sweet. He felt himself smile, and Miles brightened up as he saw it. “I’m surprised you noticed,” he murmured, “I’m used to it, really.”   
  
“Nonsense,” the finger moved to trace his jaw. “I always notice you, how could I not?” He blinked and saw Miles in a new light, suddenly. Familiar in the love that emanated from him, new in the flush it set to his cheeks. 

“I thought I noticed you,” he murmured softly, raising a hand to touch the other’s wrist. “I don’t know how I didn’t see that, though.” He did, and he was a fool. Red eyes following his footsteps, hands carding through his hair- gentle and comforting. Miles would stare at him in the sunlight and some part of him knew all along just as he knew Miles, now. 

“To be fair, you can be oblivious,” the other teased, chuckling, and something tugged in his throat.    
  
“I won’t deny it.” He stroked a thumb across the bone of Miles’ wrist and watched as he seemed to melt. A diffusion had set in, silence thick as rain slammed against the window sill. Weak moonlight cast a glow against the glass and it highlighted the white of his hair, a halo around his face. He wanted to say something, do something, one million ways to say  _ i love you _ paralyzed inside of him.

The other beat him to it.

“Can I kiss you?” Miles’ voice was hesitant, a whisper in the quiet suffocation of the night, the rain, the moment. He blinked, eyes widening, before he realized the man was staring at his lips. Something bird-like fluttered to life in his chest and he nodded slowly.   
  
“Yes, please.” Miles smiled crookedly, moving and he almost expected a press of lips but instead the soldier pressed their foreheads together, breathing deeply. He blinked, before letting his eyes fall shut. Miles’ hands were resting gently on his waist, a warm brand. A moment later the other moved back, and as he opened his eyes Miles’ hands moved from his waist to cup his face.    
  
He smiled into the kiss. 


End file.
